August Poem

Wild Words

I’ll not read poetry at bedtime anymore —

those wild words gang up,

go roaming in my head,

jump synapses, gathering speed,

picking up more of their kind,

bringing little phrases

to the threshold of my sleep

like proud cats leaving

mice on a doorstep.

Some I shoo away,

but others will not let me rest

till they finally shake me awake,

and with pen scratching sleepily

on the back of a store receipt,

I quickly let them out.

— Laura Lomax

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